THE POSTSCRIPT, Carrie Classon
They say that some plants “thrive on neglect,” and I never really believed it until now.
I have tried for years — decades really — to get things to grow, indoors and out, and I have pretty much failed at everything. Gardens languish without producing whatever they were supposed to produce. Houseplants die as they enter the house. The only plants I have success with are floral bouquets. (I am very good with cut flowers, but I acknowledge this does not count as gardening.)
So imagine my surprise when I discovered that there is a plant that appears to love me and my style of plant husbandry — that is to say, no care whatsoever.
I work miracles with the jade plant.
Now, I hear someone snickering because growing a jade plant requires no skill at all and, of course, they would be right. But the same has been said about the Christmas cactus. My mother still has a Christmas cactus she smuggled home in her suitcase from a trip to Sweden in the 1970s — I have killed off every one I have ever had. I have killed philodendrons — plants known to flourish wrapped around the uninsulated windows of college apartments and neglected for semesters at a time. To assume that even the hardiest plant is safe from my ministrations would be to underestimate my total inability.
But my jade plants survive. In fact, my jade plants might be trying to take over my home.
Like a deeply dysfunctional relationship, my jade plants reward me for forgetting about them, neglecting them and treating them badly. A near total lack of care and the lowest possible emotional involvement are disproportionately rewarded with growth. The guiltier I feel, the larger they grow.
It was my husband, Peter, who suggested I put them outside in the summer. I started with one, and it did well, so I ended up with eight. I put them in little pots on the balcony. The wind was harsh. The sun was strong. Pigeons sat on them. I forgot to water them. And those jade plants flourished.
I cut them back. I brought them into the living room before there was a hard freeze. When we went to Mexico, I asked someone to water them while we were away.
“How often?” he asked.
Since I had completely neglected them all summer, I didn’t want to frighten them with too much attention. “Every three weeks should be fine.”
“How much water?”
“I don’t think it matters.”
When I got back from Mexico, I swear those plants had doubled in size. They were too big to be in the living room over Christmas, so I moved them to the bedroom and stuffed them into a dark corner. I completely forgot to water them over the holidays. They expanded until the plants in all eight pots had combined into one giant organism. I had trouble reaching the window shade.
“Well, this won’t do!” I thought.
I took a bread knife and cut off branches until they could stand on their own. Within a day (I am not exaggerating) those plants filled in where the missing branches had been.
I see no point in ever growing any other kind of plant.
I will have jade plants in the house and jade plants on the balcony. My specialty has been made clear. I grow jade plants. I don’t try to grow anything else. My jade plants love me.
But I leave for Mexico next week and, I admit, I’m a little afraid of what they will do while I’m away.
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